


Sunshine, Roses, & Other Treacherous Things

by jukeboxes



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Black Comedy, Explicit Language, Gallows Humor, Gen, M/M, Satire, Treachery, talk of death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 17:49:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4886041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jukeboxes/pseuds/jukeboxes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Twins have made up their minds: they're going to defect. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are going to become actual, real-life Decepticons. And they aren't going to regret this... at all. Ever. Trust them. Or don't... but what would you do if your own side was out to kill you?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sunstreaker

The sun was out, and Sunstreaker resented the Earth a great deal for it. The amount of times he heard his nickname, Sunny, increased ten-fold on bright days. This meant that clear days were terrible days for the rest of the Autobots, but especially for the minibots.

The minibots were dim-witted assholes. Sure, they were semi-reliable in battle, but their near-constant prattle and insatiable ego meant that they were almost always too injured to actually participate. Perhaps this made them smarter than the average mech. It was too soon to tell.

Because the minibots were assholes, knocking them around was the official unofficial base sport. Officers turned a blind eye to infractions because they too indulged. With apathetic officers, the shortest mechs only antagonized louder, and in return received harsher beatings. The medics liked to pretend they were concerned. In reality, they appreciated the opportunity to critique the deftness of skill it took to make certain dents. The two and a half medics were sure that the dents that resulted from minibot beatings comprised a new art form created by the war-torn psyche. Nurse First Aid had, in his non-existent spare time, written a thorough overview of the movement which Hoist, the ex-medic, had dubbed _Dentistry_.

Hoist was an alien ex-medic, and therefore didn’t realize that dentistry already existed on Earth. Not that it would have mattered: both were practiced by beings who dedicated their lives to causing people pain.

Hoist was an ex-medic, that is, he had once been a medic. Formerly. He was no longer a medic because he’d let someone die. _It’s a war!_ he argued, unsuccessfully. His infraction had occurred in the early days, when dying just didn’t happen to mechs you knew. So a board of officers acting as judge and jury convicted him of a great load of things, including but not limited to malpractice, impersonating a doctor, and being excessively green. On his way to prison, the officers remembered that there was a war going on and medics, ex or not, were hot commodities.

“Why,” one young hopeful named Pipes said, “I’m positive that having a medic will get you promoted, Sergeant.” Pipes was right: having a medic would have promoted Sergeant. Hoist, however, was an ex-medic. Sergeant was not promoted. Pipes later died after being stepped on and forgotten, and subsequently and promptly bled out.

First Aid was neither a medic nor an ex-medic, though he desired to be both. He worked under Ratchet, Chief Medical Officer of the Entire Slagging Autobot Army as his official title went. Ratchet had a killer sense of humor, which, in an ironic turn of events, had killed no less than five mechs. First Aid was sure it almost killed him once or twice, and had justly considered bringing him up on charges. Fortunately for the Autobots, First Aid had decided Ratchet was a bitter old mech who deserved his gallows humor. Ratchet, having murdered five mechs in cold blood, refused to tell cocktail party jokes ever again.

Ratchet had not once been court-martialed for these deaths for several reasons. Firstly, as stated prior, medics were hot commodities; two, sometimes it paid to be the Prime’s personal physician; and C) medics were crucial come battle. Which was where Sideswipe and Sunstreaker found themselves currently.

_War is hell_ , the human soldiers would concede once they came back from it, bloodied and delusional. Cybertronians could not “come back” from war, and resented the humans so much that there had been several close but plausibly deniable hit-and-runs.

Currently, life was hell. The battlefield, a small vale in southern New Zealand, was sunny, breezy, and utterly horrendous.

For a society war-torn in half, you might think they’d be somewhat organized in their fighting. Not so – Cybertronians were chaotic in battle. From an outsider’s perspective, no one seemed to know what the hell they were doing or what they were supposed to do.

Grand, stupid things happened on that field, including Hound being shot twice after slipping on a pond, Motormaster getting a kick in the ass by Rewind, and Sideswipe being crushed and nearly decapitated by Devastator. A lot of things happened after that part, but you don’t need to know any of it.

What you need to know are two very important things: one, that Sideswipe had stood in that spot under Prowl’s orders; and two, that Sunstreaker broke.

Bots assumed that when Sunstreaker finally did break there would be a lot more cursing and violent death. Well, they were wrong. He stood there and didn’t make a sound. Half of his arm was missing, but so was half of Sideswipe. The Decepticons retreated, and he stood there. Ratchet had Sideswipe airlifted, and Sunstreaker stood there. No one approached him. He didn’t see them, anyway. He stood there.

It was at this moment that Sunstreaker decided to quit. The Autobots, that is. He considered deserting, but only for a few breems. The likelihood of them both surviving for more than a vorn in the vast and unforgiving space that was outer space was laughable.

Sunstreaker always prided himself on being a survivor, and along with him, Sideswipe.

They could become mercenaries, but he considered that idea for no longer than two kliks.

Which only left him, and by extension, his brother, one option. To defect. The decision stung more than a little. The Autobots were after all a group of his closest co-workers.

Of course, the Decepticons would also try to kill them, they’d just be less efficient than Prowl. They’d be more forthcoming about it. After all, in every speech Megaton gave he urged Cybertronians to die - not for him, but for Cybertron. Megatron did not deceive. Prowl, however, was the reigning master.

Two months later, after Sideswipe was once again resting in their shared quarters, he brought it up.

Sideswipe’s first response was a scowl. A few astroseconds later, it morphed into a pensive frown.

“What changed?”

“What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me,” Sideswipe snapped. “What was so different about this battle?”

“It could have been our last!”

“Every battle could be our last!” Sunstreaker shoved Sideswipe.

“I know that, idiot. You almost died.”

“Yeah, for like the two thousandth time…” Sideswipe scratched his neck, and winced as the ache started back up. Sunstreaker scooted over on the bottom bunk and gestured for his brother to lean back. He did, and Sunstreaker wound his his fingers through the stressed cables of Sideswipe’s neck and shoulders.

“That’s the point.”

“Then what is the point, Sunstreaker? You gotta spell it out for me. I’m all high on sedatives.”

Sunstreaker sighed. “Prowl is trying to kill us.”

Sideswipe hunched forward as a choking sound forced its way out of his vocalizer. “What the fuck, bro? That doesn’t clear up anything! Do you know something I don’t?”

“He was the one who ordered you over to Devastator!”

“Sunstreaker, I love you, but I think you’ve finally lost it. No way Prowl is part of Devastator. He’s not the one who crushed me.” Sideswipe chuckled.

“I haven’t lost anything,” Sunstreaker said. He tweaked one of Sideswipe’s horns. “I… ” He paused. Then, softly, “I just really think we need to go. Now. Soon. We're gonna die here.”

For the next hour, they were both silent. Sunstreaker finished massaging Sideswipe and then set to polishing him. He helped his ailing twin onto the top bunk. When he was about to cycle into recharge, he heard Sideswipe whisper into the darkness.

“Sunny, if we’re gonna do this… “

“We have to do it the right way?”

“The rightest way.” Sunstreaker frowned.

“Don’t ca–”

“Yeah, good night, Sunny.”

 


	2. Prowl

The next morning, Sideswipe assured Sunstreaker that he'd take point and his brother gladly let him. Even Sunstreaker acknowledged that his twin was far more adept at the game of social interaction.

He knew Sideswipe was the smoother talker. He was a bubble of charisma that even a minibot couldn’t burst. Of course, all of this didn't mean he particularly liked being out of the loop. So he whined.

Sideswipe smirked and decided to be obtuse. “You gotta be like watercolor, Sunny. Go with the flow. Let your mistakes be happy accidents.”

“I hate watercolors. You _know_ that.” Sunstreaker said.

Sunstreaker had no shortage of control issues. His obsessive vanity was the kind born of gaslit street shouts from passing mechs who fancied pretty and vulnerable young bots. He knew he was beautiful, and he knew that was a Bad Thing.

He had these issues in common with Prowl. Prowl was a stubborn son of a bitch, and Sideswipe was convinced that the two of them stood on some godly tier together. They were the two most pigheaded, inflexible mechs he’d ever known. And he worked with the Dinobots!

Sideswipe was not looking forward to talking with Prowl.

To circumvent an epic battle of witty semantics, Sideswipe waited until dusk. Coming off a double shift, Prowl was bound to be exhausted. Fresh off patrol with the sun set low on the horizon, Sideswipe swaggered up to his XO’s office.

“Prowl,” Sideswipe smirked, slumping in the chair in front of the SIC’s desk. “Prowl, I’ve come to tell you something."

“Tell me something?” Prowl said, cocking his head to the side. “You like to tell me something?"

“Yes, I’d like to tell you something.” Sideswipe said. “I’d like to tell you that Sunstreaker and I no longer want to be included in your plans."

“You and Sunstreaker no longer wish to be included in my plans. _Autobot plans_."

“That’s right, sir.”

Prowl sat forward. His desk was large - it had to be to hold his ~~ego~~ datapads. The desk was so large, Sideswipe was seated a mere twenty feet away. The unfortunate fact of the matter was that having so gigantic a desk prevented Prowl from reaching datapads out of arm’s reach. It wasn’t very efficient, in Sideswipe’s opinion.

Prowl interlaced his fingers and stared intently at Sideswipe.

“You wanted to tell me the two of you were deserting.” He said after a moment.

“Oh no, sir,” Sideswipe smiled, the picture of ingenuous innocence. “We’d never tell you that."

“Good,” Prowl nodded slowly. He never took his optics off Sideswipe.

“Good?” Sideswipe asked. “Then you’re accepting our proposal."

“No,” Prowl denied. He shook his head, “I’m your commanding officer. I’m the Second-in-Command of the Autobot Army."

“The Entire Slagging Autobot Army?” Sideswipe said, just to be obtuse.

“The Entire Slagging Autobot Army, yes. And that means that I cannot accept any proposition proposed to me by a subordinate."

“Sunstreaker and I,"

“Sunstreaker is not here, Sideswipe. I acknowledge your statement, as I will Sunstreaker’s when he inevitably comes barging in here.” Prowl relaxed his door wings and picked up a discarded datapad. “Have a good orn, Sideswipe."

“You’re going to ignore me!"

“I acknowledge that I’m going to ignore you, yes."

Sideswipe, swore, stood, saluted, and walked out the door, but not necessarily in that order.

Prowl was a mech who knew the difference between right and wrong and preferred to pretend he didn’t. He didn’t fool anyone, not Prime, and certainly not bots of a less savory type. Those bots also probably knew the difference, but their acting was much better, as they were of a less savory type. 

Several mechs theorized that Prowl’s black and white paint scheme, always kept in immaculate condition, was part of his ruse. You see, Prowl was, to a fault, an ambitious mech. Though every legal means available, he rose through the Autobot ranks to his current position, Second-in-Command of the Entire Slagging Autobot Army.

“Life isn’t always sunshine and roses!” Prowl shouted later that night, ranting to any officer with a free audial. Maybe, they thought, he was trying to be funny, using that phrase and referring to the twins. He wasn’t trying to be funny, because if Prowl was trying to be funny, he wouldn’t be.

“Those two imbeciles think that by spinning tales I would take them off the combat roster? My two best front liners!" Prowl ranted into any audial that wasn’t already shut off.

“Well, talking to Prowl didn’t work.” Two hours later, Sideswipe sat thoughtfully on the bottom bunk while Sunstreaker rested on the top.

“Of course it didn’t. What’s next, genius?”

“Call me _Lord_ Sideswipe, we need the practice.”

Sunstreaker scowled. “No.”

“Okay,” Sideswipe drawled, “just don’t come crying to me when Megatron decks you for leaving out the title.”

“I don’t particularly want to call Megatron anything other than Buckethead.”

“Oh, he’d shoot you then.” Sideswipe nodded to himself. “And I thought the entire point of this was to, uh, not die.”

“Sides–”

“ _Kuh-kachunk WHOOM_ ,” Sideswipe mimicked Megatron’s fusion cannon and punched the part of the bunk where Sunstreaker’s chest was. Sunstreaker growled.

“Dead,” Sideswipe said.

“I hate you!” Sunstreaker swore. His twin just hummed and went back to plotting.

After a breem, he spoke. “We could convince them I’m crazy. Prime’s holy moral compass never did agree with crazies. He’d formally discharge us.” Sideswipe said.

“Why not me?” Sunstreaker frowned. 

“Everyone already knows you’re crazy - convincing them would be no job at all!” Sideswipe argued.

“I’m not crazy.” Sunstreaker pouted, forgetting that he was.

“You are one of the top five craziest mechs on this planet."

“I’m not crazy," Sunstreaker insisted.

“Top three, at least.” Sideswipe amended.

“I’m not crazy,” Sunstreaker reached down to smack his twin.

“Primus!” Sideswipe exclaimed, batting away the hand. “At this rate you’re going to be number one! The plan is to convince everyone that I’m crazy!"

“Why not me?” he asked.

“No one will suspect me!"

“Sideswipe,” Sunstreaker said slowly, as if talking to someone slow, “by default, everyone suspects you."

Sideswipe pouted, rather put out. He laid down to think, as he always did his best thinking laying down. Well, laying down and moving. He kicked at the top bunk. He froze as a particularly bright idea burst to life.

“I’ve got it!”


	3. Bluestreak

As it turns out, Sideswipe’s bright idea was rather dim. The idea was so dim it was, in fact, nonexistent. But Sideswipe would never tell his brother that. 

Sunstreaker was near the end of his rope. He reached down and grabbed some more in order to tie down a pallet of energon in the storage bay.

Sunstreaker wanted to know Sideswipe’s plan. Sideswipe refused to tell his brother anything. Sunstreaker bitched.

“You don’t plan things Sideswipe! You improvise!”

“That’s not true. My plans just usually _involve_ winging it.” Sideswipe gazed at Sunstreaker with a dopey grin on his face. The grin was especially dopey because Sideswipe was still high on pain medication. Sunstreaker, as always, was not having it.

“I’d like you to throw out everything serious that ever happened to us. Forget it. Child’s play. What we are about to do is the most consequential thing possible.”

Sideswipe shrugged. “No sense in worrying if you ask me. It’s just something that needs doing. It… needs doing, right?” Sunstreaker stopped working. He gave his brother a wounded look.

“Sideswipe - “

“Okay, okay,” Sideswipe raised his hands in surrender. “We’ll do it.” They both shut up as the Ark’s resident midgets, Brawn and Cliffjumper, strolled past outside in an argument of their own.

“You fucking douche. Look at this! Shit! I’m going to be sticky for weeks. Fuck you.” Cliffjumper bitched. Brawn rolled his eyes very well for someone whose optics were stationary.

“Fuck you too, buddy. How dense are you to think that running dead speed into someone minding their own business wouldn’t get energon all over you?” Cliffjumper pushed Brawn into the wall. Or at least he tried to. Brawn saw it coming and planted all 3 tons of himself. Cliffjumper rocked him only a millimeter.

“You’re the one that’s going to explain this to Prowl!”

“Sure! I’ll be happy to do it over your dead and mutilated body, cocksucker.”

“Huh,” Sideswipe said when the minibots’ voices had faded, “Cliffy sure has taken to terran slang.”

“We’re going to need an energon supply. Everyone knows that the ‘Cons are on starvation rations.” Sunstreaker eyed the energon he was holding. 

Sideswipe let his engine whine. “Can’t we go one conversation without talking about this?”

“No.”

Sideswipe frowned in legitimate frustration. A dense anxiety formed at the bottom of his chest. 

“Fuck… we’ll save up some each day?” Sunstreaker shrugged. It wasn’t a very good plan.

“Sideswipe!” Hearing his name, Sideswipe turned around. When he saw who it was, he bowed just to be cheeky.

“ _Ooh hello_ , Sister Loquacious…” Bluestreak laughed at the reference. He walked further into the storage bay and began helping Sunstreaker stack energon cubes. Sideswipe leaned wearily on the shelving nearby.

“I don’t know if you heard,” Bluestreak said, “but scuttlebutt is Cliffjumper and Brawn got into a fight.”

“Those two lovebirds?” Sideswipe snarked. “Say it ain’t so!”

“Sideswipe, you idiot. They’re fucking each other.” Sunstreaker shook his head at the the gaping mech. 

“Since when?” 

“Since you were out of commission for two months.”

“I missed so much…” Sideswipe whined, sliding to the floor. “What else happened?” 

So Bluestreak began to happily fill him in on all the top notch gossip. Tracks had painted his face scarlet instead of crimson. Jazz caught Mirage playing peeping tom, but wouldn’t say on who. The war was actually going pretty well.

Bluestreak was stupid. Fortunately, it was the kind of naive dopiness that warranted a pinch to his cheeks and a sigh of affection. He believed all life was good, war happened for a reason, and that the color orange did not clash with neon green.

Sideswipe would miss Bluestreak.

In his opinion, Bluestreak was the Autobot’s saving grace. The ground he walked on was holy, littered with his sweet composition with a trailing stench of kindness. The kid was messed up, no doubt, but Sideswipe forgave him. 

Startled, Sideswipe realized that one day soon he would have to try to kill Bluestreak. He didn’t like the thought one bit, and resolved never to think it again. 

Sunstreaker was reminded that the only thing, the only bot, who could persuade him to stay was Bluestreak.

Unfortunately for everyone, Bluestreak was stupid. He would never see their betrayal coming. And Sunstreaker would not stay for Bluestreak. 

“Sunstreaker,” Sideswipe whispered, later that evening. Sunstreaker hummed and stared at the bottom of the top bunk. He tried to ignore the sudden discomfort of his berth. After today, after speaking to Bluestreak, their berths were cold and hard.

“I don’t think I want to go through with this anymore."

Sunstreaker knew what his brother was thinking – he always did. So he too thought of Bluestreak’s sunny smile and easy laugh. He thought about him for quite a while, mulling over the sniper.

Maybe, in a warless world, they would’ve been good partners. Sideswipe was funny and Bluestreak was compassionate and he was loyal. Bluestreak would be a store clerk - that’s how the twins would meet him, buying groceries. They’d court him. For vorns, they’d court him. They’d visit the Helex Gardens, and the Iaconian spires, and the Temple at Simfur. For a holiday they would all stay a week at Six Lasers over Cybertron. Sunstreaker would paint portraits of a smiling Bluestreak and win the annual art festival. The three of them would get drunk and change their color schemes. They’d laugh for weeks about it. He would smile when Bluestreak laughed.

Sunstreaker, Bluestreak, and Sideswipe would fight, as he imagined trines were wont to do. He’d throw things. Sideswipe would storm off and get drunk. Bluestreak would hold a grudge. But eventually they’d make up and apologize, waving a white polishing cloth in surrender. 

And, maybe, the three of them would bond. The three of them would be… happy.

He didn’t like this alternate, warless universe. Sunstreaker didn’t like hopeless things.

Love was a fairy tale amongst Cybertronians. It was a children’s story, a philosophical concept mechs disinterested in philosophy were loathe to entertain. _Maybe it existed once,_ they reasoned, _but this is war. No one has time to go off on a pretentious quest for love._ Mechs nodded and agreed over engex. In their quarters with their lovers, some entertained that love might be real. They entertained the idea for no more than fifteen minutes at a time.

The same was true of Sunstreaker. And, as Sunstreaker had always and would forever do, he put Sideswipe first.

“Tough shit. We’re sticking to the plan."

Sideswipe didn’t say anything. He knew what his brother was thinking. He always did.


End file.
